Hetalia: Central Powers
by Dark Glass01
Summary: Alternate History: After a night of revelry, Germany wakes up in a strange alternate reality where he and his Central Powers allies won what would become known as the "Weltkrieg": our Great War. With a new/old set of allies and new enemies in a Communist France and Britain, will he be able to survive long enough to find a way home? Or does he even want to?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A shorter-episodic blurb thing I'm trying to get my writing spirit back up... not sure if it will work but here I go.

Credit for the world/time-line goes to the crew of the Kaiserreich mod for Hearts of Iron: Darkest Hour, on which this fic is based. Some characters will be OOC, to reflect changes created by the alternate history.

 **Prologue**

Germany awoke to the greatest pain he'd ever felt in his life.

The aches were coming from everywhere: stomach turning and bubbling, muscles limp and covered in sharp, tingling sensations, a headache that made him feel like his brain was about to be split in half. He was sitting down, body slumped over something hard... that much he could tell, but between the constant pain and loud, nonsensical mish-mash of voices and noises around him he couldn't concentrate enough to remember anything else. God... what was I drinking last night? He finally asked himself once he could form a coherent thought, on the verge of assuming he was just recovering from a nasty binge when a very familiar voice shouted out above the din.

" _Guten tag, Europa_ ," the horribly gravely voice announced; the sheer volume only aggravating his headache. "The unbelievably awesome _Mittleafrika_ hereby calls this session of the European Conference to order. Here to awe you with my ability to answer all the world's problems. After all, anything can be defeated by pointing a big enough gun at it."

Prussia? It had to be... he'd recognize that braggart's strong accent anywhere. His eyes slowly cracked open as he turned his head in the direction of the noise... the hazy image of his brother sure enough standing at Germany's side. " _Mittleafrika_?" He mumbled too quietly to be heard above Prussia's continuing blather... some impractical suggestion to blow up Paris with a mile-long cannon. He blinked a few times to try to bring things into focus: the half-black haze slowly giving way to the sight of some kind of small board room... himself at the head or foot of a short table with two dozen or so other figures arrange along the sides. "... and this how we shall destroy the Commune once and for all. Behold: the _Vergeltungswaffe_!" He flamboyantly pulled the cover off some easel, revealing his crude drawing of a 5 pieces of heavy artillery attached to one another... having barely finished speaking before a polite golf clap responded.

"Wonderful idea, Mittleafrika..." Austria's crisp voice was enough to relax him somewhat... though Germany soon found himself flinching at an echoing clang: Austria coming into focus as he reached back to rub the growing lump on the back of his head, an obviously annoyed Hungry sitting at his side with a slightly dented frying pan in her hand.

"Show some backbone!" She commanded, shaking her head. "God... why am I still with you if you're just going to go along with Germany all the time..."

"Come now, wife... think of the children." Austria responded meekly: sure enough a teenage Croatia, Bosnia, and Czech Republic all standing sullenly behind them, rolling their eyes at the parental bickering... and one he couldn't recognize slowly circling to the other side of the table, shielding himself behind another body.

This one happened to belong to Poland, lounging back in his chair and lightly patting the young kids shoulder. "If Germany and Austria agree... how can I play one off the other?" He asked as the silent child tugged expectantly on his uniform. Behind Poland, still to far away for Germany to make out with his recovering vision, stood a green-cloaked figure, watching on with a dark glint in his eye. "Say Hungry, need any help filling out those divorce papers? I'd be happy to help if..."

With a sharp stare from Austria, however, he fell silent, Germany finding the strength to stir. He slowly began pushing himself off the surface of the desk, several other figures coming into light: a silent Switzerland, Belgium fidgeting and looking around nervously, the Netherlands mumbling something to himself.

"You Poles love to hate on mighty German people, don't you?" Prussia fired off, bounding his palm against the table. "Vhy don't we go partitioning him? Just like the good old days, eh _Von Hapsburg_." He gave Austria powerful smack on the back... the refined main shaking his head.

"Only if the German Empire approves. What say you Germany..." the crowd's attention finally settled on the struggling nation; almost all shifting from anger to concern. "Are you feeling quite well, sir?" Austria asked as Germany was finally able to sit straight under his own power... fingers rubbing into his temples. Everything was becoming clear... and strange. Where was their a crowd of anxiety young adults around Austria and Hungary... why was Bulgaria was sitting so close to the front of the table, What was Belarus doing around here with Russia nowhere in sight? What year was it?

"I'm alright..." he answered faintly, still somewhat out of it. "But I must run it by my allies first first. The chair recognizes Italy and Japan to speak?" Nobody moved for a few moments after, until some foppishly overdressed man shifting on what looked like a pile of cushions... chuckling.

"You sure you're still handling that stock market high, my friend?" This voice was smooth foreign ... and slightly old, Germany needing a few moments to attach it to a face.

"Turkey? What is a neutral doing at our conference!" Germany asked, turning his head back and forth from Austria to Bulgaria... expecting a response, Turkey's laugh only growing louder as he set himself into a cross-legged position.

"Germany using an informal name at a conference? I'd never thought I'd see the day." He continued happily. "Or the day he'd confuse allies for enemies."

"Ottoman Empire is here because you invited him, Germany" Bulgaria was quick to remind him.

"Ottoman Empire?" his disbelief was apparent. "But I was there... they all dismantled you."

"Berlin didn't kill me, my friend. Only cut off a few... less desirable growths." Bulgaria looked at him with nothing but scorn, but he paid no mind. "And again... can you not tell me and the traitor apart. You German nations and your beer."

"We mean you no disrespect," Austria quickly interjected, leaning forward and resting the back of his hand on Germany's forehead. "But... can you truly not remember? The Battle of Roma?" A hint of panic seemed to creep into Austria's voice... almost so unusual as to be spooky.

Battle of Roma The phrase sounded in Germany's head... seeming to dredge up memories. The hands that were rubbing his temples soon gripped down hard as the ideas turned to visions... this warped version overriding something he'd remember so clearly. Forest and field gave way to a cityscape, crate of tomatoes swelling and darkening into a great, bounded door of oak and precious metals, Herr Stick thickening into a powerful, bayonet tipped riffle before as he lost himself in these unusual memories...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yah... Ended up being a little less light-hearted then I'd expected.**

 **Chp. I: Bloody Memories**

Germany sat at his desk, frantically filling out the massive stack on mobalization notices the boss had dropped on his desk this mourning. There could be no delay, no mistakes with the meticulous timetables the Kaiser demanded; supposedly formulated to make it so victory was neigh-assured so long as everything was followed to the letter. Though he hardly thought it necessary; after all, what threat could that arrogant Frank and Europe's poor, simple-minded country cousin pose to the industrial might of the German Reich? He continued churning out the completed forms at an inhumane speed while completely ignoring the world around him.

Just as he reached the half-way point in his work though Germany found himself interrupted by a knock at the door."No visitors ," he absently ordered, continuing to speed through his pile in hopes they would just go away. But the knocks just became steady more insistent... A particularly intense one startling his hand out of their normal groove and leading to a huge slash of ink upon one Fritz Schuster's orders. "Come in!" He finally shouted, giving in as the antique door gave way to reveal Austria's calm figure: dressed in his well-pressed denim-blue military uniform with it's conical cap, a piece of paper clutched tightly in hand.

"A diplomatic report," he offered in explanation, before clearing his throat and reading off his paper. "My meeting to convince the Italians to honor their obligations towards us has met with a few... complications. It seems they won't be declaring war against France as we'd originally hoped." Those words causes something to tweak in Germany's mind... forcing his swift, smooth train of thought to a sudden stop. "A minor development... you'll still be able to reach Paris easily, I trust?"

He wanted to nod... but he couldn't. Everything had looked like it was going to fall right into place, Frenchmen battering themselves against their mutual border while his armies pushed their way through Belgium and the Russian offensive far less intensive. It'd all been shaping up to be a tidy little war. "We have a treaty!" Germany fired back, pushing himself up out of his chair. "What could possibly bring those Italians to break their sacred honor with us." Austria rested his forehead in his hand... rubbing into his temples as though truly fed up with the whole affair before giving a disinterested responses...

 _ **-Insert hazy, black and white flashback filter here-**_

Austria sat across the table from his Italian counterpart, quietly dining on the fine linguine dinner they'd had prepared for them. At least, he was consuming it quietly... the young nation who'd only recently left the nest slurping up the noodles like the rude child he was. Still, with the situation the way it was he couldn't afford to alienate the boy, and so put all his efforts into avoiding chastising him until their meal was over. After dabbing the excess sauce from his lip, Austria rolled out an official-looking document, pointing hard at the trio of signatures on the bottoms.

"As you're no doubt aware..." he tried to speak before being interrupted by one of Italy's particularly long and juice slurps, brow twitching on slightly before he begin again. This time louder. "As you're no doubt aware, our Empire as very recently come under attack from the forces of the French and Russian Empires. Now, according to your signature here," he tapped ferociously on Italy's scribbles that only vaguely resembled his actual name. "I believe you're obligated to come to my defense. I trust you're prepared to deploy to your Western border?"

Italy took a few moments to respond, seeming to half stare off into space before his hair-antenna sprung up, bouncing excitedly in his chair. "A war a war!" He began blathering, not stopping once to take a breath. "This is going to be so exciting. It'll be all pew-pew and ZOOM! And all those fancy marches like we had in Tripoli! And everybody will love me so much and they'll make so many cool things and..." It was then his eyes settled on Austria's wrists... something shimmering like water in the candlelight. "Oh... shiney..." he appeared almost hypnotized as he reached for Austria's long, thin cufflink, his tablemate quickly snatching it away.

"Unhand me," Austria began, Italy's mood suddenly changing from ecstatic to depressed. "My apologies. I'm just very protective of my Triest. These are my last pair..."

"But Papa Austria..." Italy wined , leaning over the table and grabbing at his sleeve to beg. "I want it really really badly. It's the last one I need for my collection." He held up his own sleeve, run up and down with cufflinks: a semi-crescent one, a wing-shaped one, and a trio of small ones welded into a single piece, Austria turning his face away in disgust.

"That was MY collection." He responded coldly, yanking himself out of Italy's deathgrip. "You need to learn you can't just take anything you want. Especially from your allies!"

Italy's eyes turned down in depression, sinking to the table as all his muscles went limp. "You're right..." he sighed heavily, rolling onto his back. "But... now I'm too depressed to fight. Poor, poor Italy." There were even some light tears there... but Austria wouldn't be swayed by a temper tantrum, pushing himself up from the table.

"Very well... I suppose me and Germany will have to take care of this ourselves. Good day, sir." His words were heavy with anger as he stomped away in a huff, leaving Italy staring up at the sky before his gaze was interrupted by a wily-beard framed smile of a certain Frenchman

"Fancying Austria's fine armwear, mon petit frère," France took Italy's hand delicately in his. "Well, consider it my gift to you... if you join me for one little venture."

 _ **-hazy, black and white flashback filter smashed by Germany's fist-**_

"That weaslly traitor," Germany spat, he felt his heart rate rise, face growing red, slapping his meaty palm down on Austria's shoulder. "I swear, my brother... if they dare to strike you, they will see no mercy."

From here, time seemed to zoom past; a bloody blur of a million black moments. Young men charging to their death against machine gun fire, huddling around small fires in deep, wet holes in the earth for months on end. Freezing in thin coats in snows of Russia and the Carpathians, watching as minds wore thin and finally broke from the endless stress of artillery fire. His stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself; bread always just out of reach with Britain standing smugly atop his boats blocking their path. All that pain pilled onto his soul, making it hard and bitter, 5 years of endless war and a flurry of propaganda stirring up something... Primal within him. The Entente needed to suffer for trying to destroy Germany, to kill HIM.

As suddenly as speed up, however, the memories slammed back into real time: the rattle of bullets and boom of exploding shells surronding him. He could feel the weight of the rifle in his hands, feet burning as he ran forward through the shelled outskirts of what had once been a great city. Austria and Hungary; both in their military uniforms and equally well armed, limped along and did their best to keep up. If Germany looked roughed up, they looked like they ought to be dead; Barry able to keep a grip on their rifles, scabbed-over cuts and still bleeding wounds all over their bodies, but leaning on eachother's shoulders to soldier on none the less. Oddly, he'd never thought he'd seen a moment they looked more like a couple then now. Around them, Austro-Hungarian and German soldiers were fanning out through the city the urban war broken into small showdowns over streets and buildings by desperate Italians... though Itay himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Kommandant," a breathless German soldier ran up to him... giving a weak salute. "Our spotters report that the Italian government are seeking sanctuary within the Church of St. Peter. The Papal forces have thus far held them out... but if we don't act quickly..." he trailed off forced to catch his breath as Austria turned his face down, distraught.

" Germany... my men can't be expected..." His voice cracked, throat dry as a bone. "We need to stop him." He could feel, even see the blood rushing to his eyes: everything taking on a thick red sheen as Germany rushed towards Vatican hill, completely oblivious to the fighting on either side. Bullets struck the paving stones mere inches from his feet, the cries of the wounded and dying echoing through his ears, but it was as thought all civilized sensitivities were draining out of him. Roman Empire had learned to fear _Furor Teutonicus_... now it was time for his grandson to learn the same lesson.

He spotted Italy easily; much shorter then the soldiers who surrounded them as he pounded desperate at the gates of the Vatican wall, on his knees and wailing something Germany couldn't make it. He let out a deep warcry as he fell upon them, firing and swinging his bayonet-tipped rifle around madly. And here... everything stopped. All that were left was flashes: men falling, Austria and Hungary joining the fray with the same wild-eyed. He saw Ottoman Empire once too... wielding scimitars alongside a well-covered Libya as they slashed at his feet, before finally a still image from above of Italy, cowering in a ball with his back against the Vatican gate, arms desperately trying to cover him from the blow that was about to be dealt...

This was the cause of all his people's suffering... the reason the war had not been as quick as Schefflin had planned. SOMEBODY had to pay for all the sacrifice, the injustices, and who better then the little Brutus here?

"Can you truly not remember, the battle of Roma?"

No... this was something he would remember. Forever.


End file.
